Michael Koryta - The Prophet

“You don’t need to worry about nights. Nights I’m here. Days, you should carry it.”

“I’ll keep it in mind. Listen, if the police stop to talk to you, please tell them—” He was interrupted when a shadow moved on the steps, nearly shouted before he realized it was Beth, watching him. “I’ve got to get back to my family,” he told Adam. “Thanks again.”

“Sure thing, Franchise.”

When he hung up, Beth said, “Who are you talking to?”

“My brother.”

“At one in the morning?”

“He’s outside.”

“What?”

“He’s watching for Sipes.”

“Just… sitting in his car?”

“I guess so, yeah. It was his idea, Beth. And I thought it was a good one.”

“Why outside?”

“Huh?” He honestly couldn’t follow the question.

“Why did you make him watch from outside? If you think it’s a good idea to have him here, let him be here. Inside the house.”

“I didn’t want to frighten the kids. Or you.”

“You were just asking him if the police had stopped him, Kent. And he was just arrested for fighting with the police. You think the best idea is to have him outside in the car? Open the door and let him in.”

Adam could not remember the last time he’d been in his brother’s home. He hadn’t crossed the threshold since the day he punched Kent in the driveway.

Now he stood in the living room in the dark, wearing a Glock pistol in a shoulder holster, unconcealed by a jacket, and shook hands with Beth, who was making an obvious effort not to stare at the weapon. Obvious and unsuccessful.

“You don’t have to do this,” she told him.

“I think it’s a good idea. And I was fine in the car, that didn’t bother me at all.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” she said.

He didn’t argue.

“Well… I’m going to bed,” she said. “Thank you, Adam.”

“Of course. Get some rest, Beth.”

She went to the bedroom then, leaving him alone with Kent in the living room.

“How you doing, Franchise?” Adam asked. “Holding up?”

“I’m all right.”

“How’s the team look?”

“I hardly saw them today, honestly. Mind was elsewhere.”

“Relax on that,” Adam said. “Focus on them, let me deal with this.”

“You and the police.”

“Right.” Adam nodded and said, “Tough one coming up. Saint Anthony’s.”

“Big game.”

“Probably the biggest. You get past them this week, you ought to be in pretty good shape if your boys stay healthy. Think you can do it?”

“I need Mears to make some catches.”

“You ought to play him at corner. Or let him play defensive special teams at least.”

“What?”

“I watched that kid. Tell you what he needs: to do some hitting. Tough for a receiver, right? But if he gets the chance to knock somebody down, put blood in somebody’s mouth, he’ll come back around. Right now he’s got to leave some emotion out on that field. He wants to play fast and mean. It’s hard for him to do that split out wide right. The kid needs to hit.”

“He’s never lined up at corner in his life, Adam.”

“He’s played against them his entire life. Let me ask you this: if that kid had arrived on your team with stone hands, where would you have played him? He’s, what, six-two and runs the forty in four-point-four?”

“Four-three.”

“Okay. Now imagine that he couldn’t catch a cold if you spotted him a sneeze in the face. Where do you use him?”

“Corner, sure. But I can’t move him over there now.”

“In press coverage, you could. He knows all the routes, he’s got all the right skills. If it’s just him covering another kid running the same routes, with less impressive skills, he’d be fine.”

Kent shook his head, then said, “Why are we talking football?”

Adam smiled. “Following your own advice, Franchise. Let’s distract ourselves, right?”

“Right.”

“Wait on the police to do their jobs.”

“Yes.”

“It’s a damn good plan,” Adam said. “Now, go back to your wife, and get some sleep.”

“Feel bad, making you stay up.”

“I won’t have any trouble with it.”

That was the truth. It was as he’d explained to Chelsea: the four people in that house were all that he had left of a family.

When Kent went upstairs, Adam sat alone with his hand on the butt of his gun and watched the street, and he had no trouble staying awake.

35

HIS TEAM LOOKED CRISP on the field, polished, and Kent almost wished that they weren’t. He felt swollen with emotion and wanted to find an outlet, release his fear and frustration into a shouting session about poor effort or technical shortcomings. The kids didn’t grant him that, though; they were precise and intense, and it was a short practice because most of the time would be devoted to watching video, the only chance all week that the coaches would have to review video of the opponent.

They went into the school, breaking up into offensive and defensive units to study football, sitting at desks in the same classrooms they’d so eagerly left an hour earlier.

The assistant coaches ran the video sessions so Kent could drift between the two groups and offer input to both sides of the ball. Today he started with the offensive group, where Steve Haskins ran through the various defensive fronts Saint Anthony’s had played during the season. Unfortunately, there were a lot of them. Scott Bless liked to mix it up.

“Any additional thoughts, Coach?” Haskins asked Kent.

“Their cornerbacks are not fast enough to keep up with Colin,” Kent said. “They’ll play a safety over the top, like we’ve seen all year, but these kids are a half-step behind, all the time. We’re still going to have the vertical game there if Lorell can put the ball in the right spot. Think you can do that, Lorell?”

This was by design, of course. He wanted everyone to think his only question was with his quarterback’s ability, that Colin’s hands offered him not even a flicker of doubt.

“I can do that, yes, sir,” Lorell said, but he was looking at Kent with a knowing stare. Colin wasn’t looking at anybody.

“Glad to hear it,” Kent said, “because those kids cannot keep up with him.”

He nodded at Haskins, who moved on to blocking schemes for inside runs, and then slipped out of the offensive classroom, paused in the hall, and called Beth.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Everything good?”

“Yes.”

“Just checking,” he said. It was the fifth call of this sort he’d made today. He was trying not to make so many, not to feed her paranoia with his own, but it was hard. He’d be focused on something and then he’d see Clayton Sipes, remember the intensity of his eyes and the way the prison’s fluorescent lights had cast a shine on his shaved head, remember the way he’d smiled when Kent told him that there was no fear that could break his faith.

“Everything’s good,” Beth said. “Kids home, doors locked, alarm on.”

“I’m not trying to scare you.”

“I know.”

“Home soon.”

“Love you.”

“Love you, too.” He hung up and started for the defensive group, thinking about Agent Dean, who knew damn well that Clayton Sipes had killed that girl. How in the hell could they not find him? It was the FBI, it was what they did, why couldn’t they go out there and get it done? And why in the hell had Kent gotten into it with Sipes in the first place? Dan Grissom was right; he’d responded to the man’s attack in the wrong way. He’d worn his faith like a chip on his shoulder and promised Sipes that nobody could knock it off, and now Rachel Bond was dead and Kent was calling his family every thirty minutes and if he’d just…